


Suicide Saturday

by TheAuthorAgain



Series: Ongoing Fics [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Avengers Family, Avengers Tower, Character Study, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Depressed Steve Rogers, Depression, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Misogyny, M/M, Masculinity, POV Alternating, Parent/Child Incest, Pedophilia, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Self-Harm, Sort Of, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Steve Rogers-centric, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Symbolism, The trauma and stuff is dealt with and handled maturely but it's also VERY INTENSE, Time Skips, Underage Rape/Non-con, War, domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:01:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29680869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAuthorAgain/pseuds/TheAuthorAgain
Summary: The man out of time. The man with a plan.The man who is, for all intents and purposes, no man at all.This is the story of Steve Rogers, the story you haven't heard before and likely will never hear again. The story that time has erased, the story that has been kept hidden for far too many years.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Avengers Team
Series: Ongoing Fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2204046
Comments: 14
Kudos: 21





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> If you did not read the tags, this story contains graphic depictions of the following: strong language, suicidal thoughts and actions, self harm, depression, rape of a minor, pedophilia, domestic violence and abuse, violence, and PTSD. These things are not included with the intent of upsetting anyone, they are used tastefully to further the plot in a more complex way. Please reach out if you have a specific trigger that you want me to make sure is not in this story, something that I wouldn't know to include a warning for. Stay safe and enjoy Suicide Saturday!

> _"Sometimes I can't help blaming you  
> _ _For leaving me here-what am I s'posed to do?"  
> _ _-Amber Run_

**TONY STARK, MAY 1, 2012**

I'm not proud of it, but I threw a fit when they said that Captain America had just been recovered from his plane and was alive and well.

I mean, I've got a history with the guy. If my dad wasn't as straight as a ruler, I would've assumed that he had been fucking Cap. So, yeah, I was mad. And then I felt bad about my anger, because...well, because it _has_ been 66 years. And I'm sure this isn't an easy transition for the man. Wouldn't be easy for me, I know that. But I'm still pissed.

I only found out because I'm a nosy piece of shit, honestly. Natalie-Natasha, sorry-and her pirate employer are clearly part of something very very interesting, so I couldn't stop myself from snooping around in their business. And good thing I did, because I learned that Steve Rogers woke up two days ago.

All their files are too encrypted to find out more about this interesting development, but I've got JARVIS working on them. Hopefully I can get some juicy details about what's going on in SHIELD's top secret base where they're keeping the guy. (I assume it's a top secret base. I mean, where else would you put Captain fucking America?)

But anyways. I told Pepper immediately, and she told me to drop it. Said that this isn't my business, I have enough to do already. We're only a day or so away from finishing up work on the Tower, which she is VERY excited about. I guess that I'm excited too, as much as I hate to admit it.

Things like this, like the Tower, they don't always feel...real. Gunshots, those are real. Explosions. Repulsors. Adrenaline. But simple projects like creating clean energy sources don't have that anxiety to make them real, so they feel like they're hiding some hidden agenda.

I know that sounds paranoid. But hey, a little paranoia never killed anyone! Probably.

After Afghanistan, after Whiplash, I've been...stressed. Pepper says words like "PTSD" and "trauma" and "therapy" all the time, but I try not to think about all that. Reps from SI tried to get me into therapy after my parents died, but I refused. Didn't want to talk to some shrink about shit I can handle on my own. Of course, abduction is a little different, but whatever. I'm fine.

In time, I was able to recover from the loss of my parents. In time, I'll be able to recover from the loss of my safety. It's not like we've got too much going on, anyways, other than the usual company bullshit and Tower renovations. Life is good to me now, it brings more love and less need for violence.

Iron Man suits around the house. A gun under my pillow. Sure, I'm not great, but I'm getting better. They're just ways to feel safe, right? And when Captain Fuckface comes around and tries to remind me of those times when a gun was anything other than something to protect you from the bad guys, I'm gonna punch him in his perfect teeth. 

Shit, man, I'm getting better. But I don't want more reminders of the crabby old man who kept me from getting better throughout my entire childhood. I don't want more reminders of the perfect soldier who I could never live up to. In short, I don't want Captain America around.

I don't care if he's having a rough time, because I've spent my entire fucking life having a rough time. Obviously, I feel bad for Cap. But if I have to think about the shadow he's cast over me since the day I was born...

I'll keep an eye on where he is. I'll stay up to date with what's going on with him. If not for his sake, then for my own. Gun under the pillow, right? Some things are dangerous, but you gotta keep them close if you want to use them. Information is power, baby, and I'll get as much as I want.

**CLINT BARTON, MAY 2, 2012**

You know, I was having a pretty good day. Had breakfast for once, not just coffee. One of the new agents was working, got to tease the shit out of him while I procrastinated helping out with that Russia case Fury wanted me on. I even went out for lunch with Hill!

And then the evil alien man showed up.

We knew that Thor was a sign that we are not alone in this universe. We _knew_ that, but how can anyone honestly expect to find some Shakespeare in the park goth kid standing in front of them? God, I knew they shouldn't have been messing with the Tesseract. Just should've placed less blind faith in my coworkers and done something to stop this before it began.

These thoughts flash through my head in an instant of fear and irritation, standing in front of the man with the spear next to Fury. But thought is quickly replaced by action as the battle begins with a blast of blue light from the spear in his hand.

I grab Fury and fall back, hitting the ground hard as we're thrown. I quickly recover, though, looking up to see my fellow men falling. I grab the gun from my belt (would've preferred my arrows, but thank God I've at least got this) and start shooting, though my efforts and the efforts of those around me seem to be in vain. The man treats these attacks like they're just mild irritations, not dangers that should be ending his life.

Another jet of blue light surges towards me, knocking the wind out of me as I collide with the ground hard. God, how many bruises am I gonna have tomorrow, I swear-

I struggle to my feet and turn around, only to find the man less than a foot away from me. I get into a defensive position, only to have an impossibly strong hand grip my arm. I wince as the vice tightens, and the man looks at me with an almost animalistic gaze. "You have heart," he says, lifting his stick and placing it against my chest.

Something fills me, spreads from the place he touches me and shoots through my veins. At first, it's a discomfort, a nuisance, but then it reaches my head. My eyes. My vision goes dark for a moment, but when I can see...

It's like I've been blind, and am only now seeing the light.

The world is tinted in blue, but I can't focus on anything other than the man in front of me. My savior. My master. The man I will do _anything_ for, I'd walk through fire if it meant he would be pleased with me-

I realize I'm still holding the gun. Silly. I put it away quickly and stand up straight, rest in a dignified position as I wait to hear what he needs. "I am Loki, of Asgard," I hear, "and I am burdened with glorious purpose."

Loki. Good to know my master's name. Maybe he'll be happy if I can show him that I care, that I know him, that I pay attention.

Loki argues with some...people. I feel like I should know them-oh, no, but I shouldn't. They don't matter to me, they only matter if they try to hurt my master. Then, they are threats that must be neutralized. But now? I'll just wait to see what Loki wants.

Hang on, but there's something amiss. Though my thoughts wander, my attention is focused on the confrontation in front of me. "Sir, Director Fury is stalling," I say, not quite sure where I got that name but positive that I am correct in my statement. "This place is about to blow, and drop a hundred feet of rock on us. He means to bury us."

My master asks me to shoot the Director. I comply. He asks me to follow him. I comply.

Loki is filled with glorious purpose, and I will do anything to see this purpose fulfilled.

**THOR OF ASGARD, MAY 3, 2012**

It took a day to realize my brother was alive.

I knew not how he managed this rise from the dead, only that I had to find him before he did something foolish. Though, the manner of which I learned of his survival ensured that this hope was crushed before it had a chance to bloom.

Heimdall was the one to inform that Lady Jane was calling. With no way to communicate while I was on Asgard, I did not understand at first. That is, until he told me that she was simply standing outside and yelling.

With Heimdall's assistance, I transport to her side. "Fuck!" she shouts loudly, clutching her heart and stumbling back. "Jesus, that scared the shit out of-hi, Thor, thank you for FINALLY coming."

"What is your trouble?" I ask with concern, "Heimdall told me you required assistance."

Jane bites her lip, almost looking as though she wishes she had not summoned me. "Well...don't freak out. So, uh, Loki's here? Like, on Earth? Yeah, he's on the news, it's kind of bad-"

"My brother lives?" I say with astonishment, "He is here, on this planet?"

"Uh huh. And he's kind of wrecking havoc, too, so you might wanna hurry up and find him before he does something stupid."

"On my honor, I will," I promise her, "But only if you are sure you will be safe. I cannot leave you if I do not know you shall be protected."

Jane smiles at me, a beautiful sight, and reaches into her bag to pull out a small handgun. "I'm covered, Thor. Go kick some ass."

The expression confuses me, but I smile nonetheless and raise my hammer. "Heimdall!" I call out, "Bring me to my brother!" The last thing I see before light overtakes me is her face, trusting and open and beautiful.

I land on the top of an aircraft, cape billowing behind me. Entering the vehicle, I see a red and gold machine which Jane has told me is called a robot. Knocking it back, I grab Loki from where he sits and fly out into the stormy night.

I attempt to talk some sense into Loki, setting aside my grief and anger and relief for the sake of this planet. My brother doubtlessly has nefarious plans for this planet, and I refuse to let him succeed in his goals. Not when Jane is armed with nothing more than a gun, though her possession of such a weapon eases my fears.

The robot comes crashing into me in an instant, dragging me away from Loki and filling my breast with fury. The face of the machine lifts up, revealing that it is not a robot at all, but a man. "Do not touch me again," I say gravely.

The man gives a calm look, unaffected by my stern face. "Then don't take my stuff."

"You have no idea what you are dealing with-"

"Uh, Shakespeare in the park? Doth mother know you weareth her drapes?"

Though confused by his words, I can clearly gauge his irreverent tone and bristle. "This is beyond you, metal man. Loki will face Asgardian justice!"

"He gives up the Cube, he's all yours! Until then..." His face plate comes down, a clear sign that he is preparing for a battle. The man begins to retreat, so I throw Mjolnir and knock him into a tree.

And thus I ensure a battle must be fought. I battle must be won, for the sake of my brother and of this world. For these mortals, these puny humans have no knowledge of the power he possesses, the true nature of his schemes or the determination he has to accomplish his goals. This fight is for their own sake, truly, so I see no logic behind their insistence on handling him themselves.

A battle begins. A battle that must be won, if humankind wishes to be anything but slaves.

**NATASHA ROMANOV, MAY 4, 2012**

I'm not stupid. Sure, I make a living off of making people think I am, but I'm not. So when I saw that little greasy bastard sitting in his cage like it was a throne room, I knew something was up.

Others did as well. Nick, for sure. Stark, maybe. In any case, I decided to be the one to actually address the situation and interrogate the son of a bitch.

I briefly appreciate my Red Room training as Loki's face comes into view. All I can think of is Clint, a good man who doesn't deserve to lose his will to the likes of this monster. But I can control myself easily, hiding emotion has been a strength of mine since I was a child. Since doing anything else would've resulted in death.

I try to stay quiet, walking up. I can feel my gun in my back pocket, a familiar reminder that I can fight my way out of here if I have to. That even if this piece of shit makes it out of hiss cage, I can do what I need to do. "There's not many people who can sneak up on me," Loki says with a slimy smile, once I've come close to the glass of his prison.

"But you figured I'd come."

"After. After whatever tortures Fury can concoct, you would appear as a friend, as a balm. And I would cooperate."

I scan his face, looking for any tells that could help me get the information I need. "I wanna know what you've done to Agent Barton."

"I'd say I've expanded his mind."

"And once you've won. Once you're king of the mountain. What happens to his mind?"

"Is this love, Agent Romanov?"

The eye roll strains to break free, but I contain it. "Love is for children. I owe him a debt."

"Tell me." Hm. I'll bite, space boy. 

He sits, and I pull up a chair as well. "Before I worked for SHIELD, I uh...well, I made a name for myself. I have a very specific skillset. I didn't care who I used it for, or on. I got on SHIELD's radar in a bad way. Agent Barton was sent to kill me, he made a different call."

"And what will you do if I vow to spare him?" Oh, honey. There's more kinds of love than romantic, and you can't fool me that easily. Honestly, you couldn't fool anyone with a lick of sense that easily.

"Not let you out."

Loki laughs-harsh, unkind. "Ah, no. But I like this. Your world in the balance, and you bargain for one man?"

"Regimes fall every day. I tend not to weep over that, I'm Russian... or was."

"What is it you want?" Finally asking a good question.

"It's really not that complicated. I've got red in my ledger, I'd like to wipe it out."

"Can you? Can you wipe out that much red? Drakov's daughter? São Paulo? The hospital fire? Barton told me everything. Your ledger is dripping, it's gushing red, and you think saving a man no more virtuous than yourself will change anything?" He stands in anger, and I compose my face accordingly. "This is the basest sentimentality. This is a child at prayer... PATHETIC! You lie and kill in the service of liars and killers. You pretend to be separate, to have your own code, something that makes up for the horrors. But they are a part of you, and they will never go away! I won't touch Barton. Not until I make him kill you! Slowly. Intimately. In every way he knows you fear! And when he'll wake just long enough to see his good work, and when he screams, I'll split his skull! This is my bargain, you mewling quim!"

Jesus, this guy likes the sound of his own voice. I stand and turn around, try to put tears in my voice. "You're a monster."

"No, you brought the monster."

There it is. "So, Banner. That's your play."

"What?" Loki looks deliciously staggered by my words, and I take a vindictive pleasure in his expression.

"Loki means to unleash the Hulk," I say into my earpiece, "Keep Banner in the lab, I'm on my way. Send Thor as well." I look up at Loki, and smile. "Thank you for your cooperation."

**BRUCE BANNER, MAY 5, 2012**

Guilt has always been a predominant force in my life. Even before I became a monster, I felt it all the time. As a child, it was guilt for not meeting my father's impossible expectations. As I grew older, it became guilt for realizing that those expectations were impossible and saying nothing, letting others hurt because I was scared.

And then the Hulk came around.

Guilt _eats_ a person. Everyone has a shitty childhood, everyone has regrets. But murder? That's not something most people have on their hands. Good thing, too, because it is the heaviest guilt you can possibly carry.

I remember holding the gun. Looking at it for a long, long time before placing it in my mouth. You'd think I would've been scared, but I wasn't. I was at peace, because I knew that I was going to be free of my guilt. And then I failed, and was left with more guilt than before.

Letting loose on the hellecarrier, that was my fault. Any time the Hulk comes out is my fault. But now...now I have the chance to make this guilt into good. Use what I thought was a curse to save lives.

I look over at Captain America before walking towards the alien beast approaching us. "Dr. Banner, now might be a really good time for you to get angry," he says, and I snort to myself.

"That's my secret, Captain. I'm always angry."

And then everything goes blank.

"Hey, hey, easy!" I hear a rough voice say. Blinking, I make out the form of Tony Stark above me, tired but smirking. And then I remember-

"Did we win? Did we get Loki? What-?"

Tony laughs. "Yeah, pal, we won. Come on, we're getting shawarma."

"Shawarma? Why-?"

"I'll explain later, put some clothes on."

Deciding to just go with the flow, I stand, clutching my torn pants around my waist to protect my modesty. God, I'm tired. My body aches, and I feel the typical nausea that always follows Hulking out. I'll manage, though. Always do.

JARVIS directs me to a guest bedroom in the Tower, where some ill fitting men's clothes await me. I pull them onto my body with a groan, wanting nothing more than to collapse on a bed and sleep for hours. Maybe find out what the hell I did during the battle, first, but then sleep.

Doesn't seem like I'll be able to do either of those things, though, not if Tony has anything to do with it. I wait with him in the lobby of the Tower, as the others slowly trickle in. First, it's Clint, still carrying around his bow and arrow. Natasha follows a few minutes later, talking on the phone and completely ignoring our friendly greetings.

"Are Thor and Cap coming?" I ask Stark, who's currently pacing around while fiddling around on some device in his hands.

"Better be," he bristles, "They promised me they would. Thor, I understand, he's got a psychotic brother to worry about, but-"

Damn, he's stressed. In an effort to placate him, I say, "I can go find Cap. He's still around the Tower, right? JARVIS would've told you if he left?"

"Yeah. Last I saw him, he was hanging around the roof, but JARVIS can confirm. Romanov, you wanna go get Thor?"

She looks up, unamused. "Can't you just ask your robot butler to do that for you?"

"Sweetheart," Tony says patronizingly, "My robot butler cannot physically retrieve things. He can tell you where Thor is, but he can't get Thor. That's a job for-"

"Sure, sure. Whatever. Not like I'm busy dealing with the _aftermath of an alien invasion_ or anything."

"Great, thanks."

I hop up the stairs per JARVIS's instructions, hoping I can find Cap before Tony actually loses his mind. Tony's a little erratic-everyone is, but him especially so.

I go to that room where Tony woke me up, the large lounge of sorts with the huge balcony. I see a figure standing, decked out in red, white, and blue. Why Cap is just hanging around when he promised-it doesn't matter. I approach him silently, eyebrows furrowing as I take in the scene in front of me.

He's holding a gun tightly in his hand, the side of his face I can see remarkably stoic. He lifts the gun (wait) and raises it (WAIT) and lifts it to his forehead-"WAIT!"

A gunshot rings out.


	2. II

> _"So wake me up when it's all over,  
>  When I'm wiser and I'm older."  
> -Avicii_

**STEVE ROGERS, JULY 4, 1928**

It was my birthday, and it was steaming.

Ma always used to say it wasn't summer until you got your first 90 degree reading. This was the third year in a row that summer began in July, according to her, and I wasn't really a fan.

When you're little, your tenth birthday is a big deal. I mean, every birthday is, but your tenth especially. Double digits, you've gotten old enough that just one isn't enough. That's exciting. I was excited, that year, undeterred by the sweltering heat.

Bucky had stayed over the previous night, having begged both our mothers to get to have a sleepover. We had gone to bed at a semi-reasonable hour, myself staying up a little later than normal so I could prove to Buck that I was old and mature just like him. The age gap wasn't usually a big deal-one year really isn't much. But things like bedtimes often provided opportunities for him to see me as lesser, and I would never take the chance to be anything but perfect for my friend.

I woke at around 8, sitting up blearily and looking over at Bucky's form beside me in bed. That boy slept like the dead, while I was awakened by the slightest disturbances. I envied him, for that. I envied him for a lot of things.

But in this moment, I didn't feel envious. I was excited, and I raced to the kitchen to see if Mama had left me a present before she went to the hospital.

She worked long hours, Sarah Rogers. Hard to do anything else when you've got a kid as sick as I was. We managed, though, spent many happy years living in our trashy little apartment.

Well, sort of.

"Steve?" Bucky called out in his squeaky little voice, and I turned in surprise. "Bucky, what are you doing up?" I said back, "Did I wake you?"

"No, don't think so. Just woke up. Did your Mama leave a present?"

"Don't think so," I said glumly. I hated being disappointed in my mother, but sometimes I couldn't help it. My birthday present that year might only be fireworks, which I tried to resign myself to. I _had_ gotten real sick that winter, and Mama probably was still hurting for money after paying for the medicine. Yeah, that musta been it.

Bucky walked forward despite his sleepy eyes and gave me a hug. "Aw, sorry, Stevie. Maybe she'll bring one home after work! That's what my Daddy does. He comes home and he-"

"Yeah, yeah. I don't think so. Whaddya wanna do today?"

We debated our options aloud as we dressed ourselves in shorts and loose shirts. It was too hot for Coney Island, which was where we went last year. 'Sides, we didn't have money for tickets. There weren't any baseball games to sneak into, no kids to pick fights with. (Not that Bucky would wanna do that. He hated the block fights, said it was no fun and a mean thing to do. I thought he was being a pansy, but I kept my thoughts to myself. Mama said that was a Bad Word to Say to Your Friends, and I never would want to make Bucky feel bad.)

In the end, we decided to stay home. Buck had been poring over some story paper called The Wizard for forever, or at least since the new one came out. His Daddy got em for him all the way from England, which was very far away. I didn't like reading so much, but the pictures in the Wizard were fun to look at. Even if I didn't like the Wolf of Kabul so much.

While Bucky reread his stories of daring adventures and narrow escapes, I drew home. This was where the summer often found us-staying inside to avoid the heat, silent together.

"Steve, do you think Mary has a crush on me?"

I looked up, annoyed by the interruption. "What Mary?"

"Spitzer."

"Um...maybe. I dunno, why don't you ask her?"

"Well, because then she'd have to be my girlfriend!"

"You're too young to have a girlfriend."

"Exactly, Steve. Thanks for understanding. So, do ya think she does?"

I sighed, setting down my sketchbook. "Gee, Buck, I really don't know. A lotta girls are sweet on you-"

"Yeah, but Mary ain't 'a lotta girls'." Bucky seemed sincere enough, but I couldn't help but be irritated.

"Figure it out yourself! Why do you wanna know, anyhow?"

"Just wonderin'," he said shyly, "She's nice. And she's pretty. I just wanna know, that's all!"

"Okay."

I always felt a little heavy when Bucky asked me about girls. Sure, I was glad he got excited about em, but I always wondered if one of those gals would up and take my Bucky away from me. It wasn't a rational fear, but then again, I didn't have any other friends to discuss it with. Buck was it.

He dropped the issue quickly, seeing that I wasn't interested. We continued to silently enjoy our activities, each enveloped in silent thought.

As I sketched a general outline for the kitchen, I looked over at Bucky, sprawled out on my couch. He really was a good pal, doll dizzy or not. Sometimes, when I started feelin' heavy and tired for no reason, he made it better. Gave me a hug, or talked to me about whatever book he was reading until I felt a little more like myself again. There weren't words for how much I appreciated that.

It really didn't matter if Buck talked about girls all the time, because he was my friend. I could stand feeling a little heavier if it meant I could have him.

At least, I thought I could. But that was before Papa came back.

**STEVE ROGERS, MARCH 26, 1925**

I wondered what I did wrong every day. There had to be a reason, right? Papa always said that I messed up, that I deserved it...I just wasn't sure how.

When I messed up, Papa would punish me. Usually he would wait until Mama went to work at the hospital. Sometimes, he would tell Mama's friends to invite her out so he wouldn't have to wait. ("Sarah's feeling real down today, I think some time with you all might make her feel better. I tried, but it just-you don't have to say yes, of course, just asking...gee, thanks, Mary. You're a lifesaver.")

When Mama was around, Papa made sure that he only yelled or hit. He saved the Other Thing for when I REALLY messed up.

He did it for the first time a coupla months ago. I didn't like it at ALL. Before, Papa would only hit. And only when I did something wrong. But the Other Thing was different, Papa only did it when Mama was at work and he knew she wasn't gonna come home or when she was visiting the hospital in Connecticut for a few days.

I don't know why Papa did the Other Thing. It didn't feel good, but it usually didn't hurt as much as when he got the belt. It was really weird. One time, I asked Papa why he did it. "Because you fucked up, kid," he said. That's what he usually said.

"Yeah, but why don't you just hit me, Papa?"

He just looked at me all squinty and turned around. "You don't need to know that. This is better than me hitting you, right? Think about that."

"Can I ask Mama? Would she know?"

Papa DIDN'T LIKE THAT. He turned back to look at me real quick and looked very very angry. And then he started digging through one of his drawers (don't you go looking in my shit, kid, don't even come in my bedroom unless I tell you to) and pulled out a gun.

"You see this?" he asked, holding it super close to my eyes. I nodded a lot, because it was right in front of my face and it was scary and Bucky said that people with guns could Blow Your Brains Out and I wanted my brains to stay in my head. "If you tell anyone, ANYONE about this, I'll fucking kill you. You understand, boy? Say it out loud."

"I understand, Papa, I understand."

He looked a little less angry, and put the gun down. "Good. Go clean yourself up and get dressed. Sarah's coming home in a few hours."

I never asked any more questions after that. Papa didn't like to talk about the Other Thing, and I didn't like it when Papa got out the gun. He only did it when I was being Too Damn Nosy for my Own Good, so I tried to be quiet most of the time. Even to Bucky.

Bucky said that best friends tell each other everything, so I felt bad for not telling him about this. But I REALLY didn't want Papa to blow my brains out, so I figured it was okay to lie a little bit. God would understand.

One time, me and Mama were walking back from the grocery store together, and we saw two boys kissing. On the LIPS. Mama said that that was a capital-S Sin and they were doing a bad thing. She made me walk home very very fast with her, and then she told me all about how Man Shall Not Lie With Man and that if you do you'll go to hell.

I didn't really know what Man Lying With Man was, but I figured it was something to do with the kissing. Sometimes I felt sad for Papa. Sometimes when he did the Other Thing, he would put kisses on me. I knew I wasn't a man, but was he gonna go to Hell anyways? Even though Papa wasn't very nice, I didn't want him to go there.

Sometimes Papa did good things. He helped Mrs. Weber find her keys one night when it was real dark (Mrs. Weber couldn't see too good, so helping her out is the Right Thing to Do). And whenever him and Mama's song came on the radio, he swung her around and sang with a silly voice and made her giggle. I liked it when Mama laughed. She had a very pretty laugh.

But Papa was scary. I didn't know when I was gonna mess up, and so I had to try and do everything Just Right. Mama said I was a very good boy, and that I would grow up to be a very fine man. Papa said that that Mama didn't know the real me, that I was gonna grow up to be a fuck-up just like Joe who lived under the bridge by school. It wasn't hard to know who to believe, 'specially since Papa was right most of the time.

I wanted to be a good boy like Mama said I was. Lying is a Sin, and I didn't want Mama to be a liar whenever she said nice things about me to her friends. But I didn't know how to be good enough.

Sometimes I messed up with Bucky, and I said things that made him sad. I HATED when Bucky was sad. Papa said that to be a Real Man Like Me, you gotta be strong enough to handle things on your own. I wanted to be a Real Man someday, so I figured it was a good idea to keep most of my heavy thoughts to myself.

They always made Bucky feel sad, anyways.

**STEVE ROGERS, JANUARY 18, 1929**

I really didn't wanna go home.

Most kids loved coming home on Fridays. End of a long school week, getting to spend time with their friends and family. Freedom at last. But for me, Friday afternoons weren't nice at all.

Bucky asked me to come over to his house a lot on Fridays, but I always had to say no. At least, recently, I'd had to say no. Ever since Papa came back, Friday afternoons were busy.

Sometimes, I tried to take a long time to go home. I would walk real slow, kick a rock along the way. But when I did that, Papa got really mad. Like, REALLY mad. It wasn't worth it, to put it off, so I just gritted my teeth and walked home at a normal pace.

It really wasn't so bad. Papa had only been home for a little more than a month, and he was only allowed to have his Friday afternoons. _It ain't so bad,_ I tried to remind myself over and over again, but I still spent every Friday in a pit of dread.

This one was like every other. I said goodbye to Bucky, smiled brightly and started on my merry way home. The moment I was out of sight I let the mask drop, let myself feel awful for just a short while before I put it back on.

I climbed the stairs quietly and knocked on the door. "It's open," a hoarse voice said, and I took a deep breath before stepping inside and locking the door behind me. He sat on the couch, wasted. I set down my bag and just stood there, waiting for instruction. "C'mere," he slurred, and I went to gingerly sit on the lap per the request of his clear hand gestures.

It wasn't hard, not yet. I just sat there awkwardly as he ran a hand back and forth across my stomach, focusing on my breathing. One time I had something like an asthma attack while he was doing his business, which was _not_ good, so from that moment on I tried to stay as calm as possible.

The hand dropped a little, and I kept trying to breathe normal as his hand started touching me _there._ The lap I sat on started to harden a bit, and I tried to contain my nausea at the realization that this actually didn't hurt-didn't even feel bad.

That was the worst. It was bad enough when it-but when I...I didn't want to, to, ENJOY it. I _really_ didn't enjoy it, not at all. But sometimes he would touch me in a place or do something that was nice, and I couldn't help but feel good. And it made me _sick._

But I knew the good feeling was gonna stop soon, which was almost a relief. He started to pull off my clothes, until I was naked and shivering in the barely-heated apartment. And then-well.

Sometimes, when he took off his belt, he liked to hit me with it. Today, though, he just got right down to it. It hurt more than a belt ever could, probably because he was doing it to such a...sensitive...area. I clenched my jaw so hard it hurt as I felt my body get pushed forward over and over and over and I just wanted it to stop but I knew it NEVER would because this was the deal Mama made and this was the way things would be and it didn't matter if it hurt so bad I wanted to scream and it didn't matter if I couldn't stop crying and it didn't matter if I was a kid, because this was the way life was and I just had to suck it up and deal with it.

I felt something hot inside me as Papa made a noise, and then FINALLY he got out. I just sat there for a moment, waiting for instruction, as I felt liquid drip out of me with a nasty and shameful sensation.

"Clean up," he said, finally, and I dared a glance up to see that he was standing fully dressed in front of me. "Sarah and I are going to have dinner with Father Michael tonight, so you'll have the house to yourself."

I nodded, standing shakily and moving to the bathroom. House to myself. Too bad I was gonna spend my unexpected freedom curled up in a ball in bed.

**STEVE ROGERS, FEBRUARY 2, 1929**

Where Fridays were hell, Saturdays were the bright spots of my life.

Bucky overtook them, having me over at his house just about every week. He was a good friend, better than I deserved, always happy to do whatever others wanted. Of course, he would give his loud opinions first, but concession to him was not a burden but a blessing.

Sometimes I was unable to do anything but stay home; illness and otherwise plagued me often. He didn't mind, however, simply enjoying my company in whatever form it came.

This particular Saturday was spent indoors-not because of any lack on my part, but the weather. Blustering winds made outdoor activities impossible, so we were stuck inside with Bucky's sisters.

Dolly was the youngest, just as lovely and sweet as her name suggested. Then Calpurnia, who was going through a spell of demanding to go by her full name instead of Callie. Supposedly she wanted to stand out as the only Barnes sibling who didn't go by a nickname. Finally, Becky and Bucky, twins about as identical as the night is to the day.

I liked Bucky's sisters, even if they bugged me to no end. The whole lot was incredibly kind, quick to look over my shortcomings and accept me as one of their own. They liked to call me their baby brother, even though I was older than Callie-sorry, Calpurnia- and I could never bring myself to care. Those girls were just too damn adorable to get mad at.

This Saturday, we were all playing cards. "Playing cards" being a loose definition of what we were doing, as Dolly was too young to understand those kinds of games and we were mostly tossing the cards around and giggling. Moments like those, it was easy to forget about the ache in my bottom and the ache in my heart.

I thought about telling Bucky about a thousand times a day. It pained me, keeping anything from him, but I knew that sharing something so dreadful would only mean that I wouldn't be able to have this makeshift family we had created on Saturdays.

A man kept to himself. A man held his own. Even at ten years old, I knew these truths better than I knew my own name. Though I was no man yet, I still had hope that I someday might be the kind of guy that could easily outvalue my father. So the things he did to me stayed hidden.

_One day,_ I would tell myself, when the burden of my secrets threatened to choke me alive, _One day you can tell him. One day you won't have to hide any more. One day this all will end._

This elusive "one day" wouldn't come for a long, long time.


	3. III

> _"Pools of sorrow, waves of joy  
>  Are drifting through my open mind  
> Possessing and caressing me..."  
>  -John Lennon_

**STEVE ROGERS, SEPTEMBER 27, 1930**

I always considered myself to be an artist. Even when I couldn't afford paper and had to doodle on napkins or my own hand, I was an artist.

Of course, I would never share this with other people. I got enough hate from my peers without being a "creative type" on top of all my physical flaws. Bucky always said he liked that I could draw, particularly when my talents spewed out yet another picture of him. It wasn't arrogance, I don't think, he just liked to look at how I saw him. Then again, we were young. It's hard to say.

I was twelve, him thirteen. And despite everything that went on in my home, I was happy. I had Bucky, the treasure of Franklin Middle that most could only dream of. And he was my friend despite the countless differences between us. God above, were there differences. But he never seemed to care.

I had a temper like a firecracker, restrained when I was home but set free anywhere else. I would fight a brick wall if it said something I didn't like, and Bucky would be left to pull me away.

I don't think Bucky minded, not really. Then again, it's hard to think about what he thought back then-we never talked much about feelings, at least back then, preferring to play soldiers or run around with some of the other kids on my block. When we grew older, there was time for that, but at this point we were just...kids. Sort of.

"Are you gonna make rent this week?" Bucky asked, swinging his legs over the ledge of the brick wall we sat on. It made me nervous, how casually he leaned over the edge, but I shoved down my worry. This was safe, we had sat up here a million times before, it was fine.

"Uh, yeah? Pa hasn't said much about it lately."

Papa hadn't said much about anything lately, but I couldn't let myself feel at ease. This usually meant he was gonna lash out come Friday, especially since he hadn't done anything the day before. Probably saving up his energy.

Bucky nodded, bringing his attention back to his popsicle. Mrs. Wilson from the store said their icebox broke, and they weren't gonna get it to be fixed until that afternoon. By which point all their frozen stuff would be getting a little warm. And since popsicles didn't do so good in the warm, it meant free popsicles for all the kids lucky enough to walk by the store before they melted.

We simply sat there for a moment, before I frowned. "Wait, what do you care if we're gonna make rent? Not like you can do anything about it."

"Well..." Bucky looked uncomfortable under my piercing gaze. "Hey, quit it with the crazy eyes, wouldya? I just figured that if, y'know, you weren't gonna...well, Dad got a raise. Pretty big one, too. And I know that there's the-the Depression, and a lotta people are losing jobs, hurtin' for money, so I just wanted to know-"

"What, you gonna pay rent for me? Convince your Daddy that poor little Stevie needs his hard earned money-"

Bucky rolled his eyes in his typical animated fashion. "Ah, lay off. Just tryin' to help."

"I don't need your help." Upon Bucky's smirky little smile, I straightened my back and scowled. "I don't NEED your help. Okay? I'm fine. And it ain't like you do nothing for me, I already owe you plenty."

Bucky looked almost angry at my words, which was a shock. Took a lot to get Bucky angry, and it was almost always because something was deeply unfair. Or because somebody was hurting me. "You don't owe-you don't owe me _shit,_ Steve." My eyes widened at the swear, but he kept going, "C'mon, you really think I would pull you outta fights and all that if I didn't like you? That's just stupid."

"M'not stupid."

"Sure you're not, punk." He gave a real smirk at that, and I shoved his shoulder. "Hey!"

Things were always good with Bucky, even if every interaction reminded me of how inferior to him I was. Because...well, because he didn't think I was inferior, somehow. I didn't understand it, but I really did hope I would be able to. No one else saw me like he did, no one in my whole damn life. He-

Well, suffice to say, I depended on Bucky Barnes for a whole lot more than he realized.

**STEVE ROGERS, OCTOBER 3, 1930**

This was one of the rare occasions I wished I wasn't right.

I was smart, even at twelve. I did well in school, when I wanted to, and I had some very strong situational awareness and logic that steered me wrong far less often than the people around me. When I wasn't correct, I wanted to be, because I didn't have much to offer other than what I could do with my head and my hands.

But this time, this time I wished I wasn't right.

Fridays were just a part of life. And I knew this, I was as used to this as I could be. Yeah, it made me hurt and throw up and cry and feel like I was no better than trash on the streets, but it was only one day a week. The rest of the time, there was opportunity for joy. So I just accepted it as best I could and moved on.

I wished I wasn't right on this particular Friday. I was spared the previous one. I was ignored in the weeks leading up to it. I wished I hadn't thought of what he might do to me that Friday, because then maybe it wouldn't have actually happened.

But it did.

Never in my life had he made me-made me...it was humiliating to admit. But when it felt _good,_ it was more horrible than any pain he could ever inflict on me. And I HATED it, hated that this thing so terrible could feel so good. That I had no choice but to...

He had never made me, uh, _come_ before. Bucky said that was what it was called. But this Friday, it was almost like he WANTED me to, like he knew somehow that giving me pleasure was torture.

I couldn't-I just felt so dirty, after. I always did, but this time? This time it was like I was irredeemable, unforgivable, like I had no right to feel ashamed or pained by what he did because I _came._

He left right after, like he usually did. I just sat there for a few minutes, mouth open and cheeks red. I was in shock, unable to accept that I had-but eventually, I realized that I needed to stand up and-clean up.

I stumbled to my feet, aching everywhere. _Disgusting, filthy, awful,_ a constant mantra pounded through my head, and I couldn't do anything more than drag a wet cloth over my skin and pull on some clothes.

_No one loves you, going to Hell, scum of the Earth,_ the mantra continued, increasing in volume and intensity. A crawling feeling started scurrying beneath my skin, making me shudder. Rats with large, calloused hands were climbing all over me, and I felt myself curl into a ball.

The mantra continued, louder and louder and louder and LOUDER, and I felt the need to scream. My nails dug into my skin, drawing tiny pinpricks of blood, as I tried somehow to make that violating and unceasing crawling sensation stop.

Oddly enough, it worked. A little.

Overtaken by a force more powerful than anything I had ever experienced, I made my way to the kitchen. My back arched as that crawling feeling continued to burn under my skin, and I grabbed a knife in my almost drunken haze. _Pain makes the crawling stop pain makes the crawling stop, pain makes the crawling stop-_

The edge of the blade pressed into my skin, and I pushed down hard. "Don't," a faraway voice whispered in my head, "Don't do this. This is bad. You will regret this." But the voice was quiet and the hateful mantra like a roaring river in my mind. The voice did nothing to stop me as I dragged the knife across my skin.

I gasped at the sudden pain, in shock for a moment as red beads emerged from my skin. _Did I really just do that?_ I wondered, horrified, before I realized that, for a moment, _the crawling stopped._

I lifted the knife and brought it down again, bluntly drawing another line. Tears came to my eyes-not of pain, but joy. This was penance, punishment for the sin I had committed with my pleasure. This was the way to make it all go away, to make it better and make the crawling beneath my skin cease. I dug further down with the knife, relishing in the feeling of pain that didn't even seem to hurt with how good it felt.

Even though a part of me was screaming at me to stop, my skin weeping red tears and my eyes watering despite the sick happiness I felt, I couldn't. It was like something, someone else had overtaken me, was puppeteering my hands as they perpetuated a pain that eventually had my lying on a cold kitchen floor.

I was spent, empty. I wasn't quite sure why. And then I realized that my arm hurt. A stinging, aching pain that somehow felt impossibly different than it had just moments before. Why...why had I done that? My arm, how was I going to hide that? If anyone found out, they'd send me to the looney bin for sure-

I stood up quick and rinsed off the knife in the sink. Stumbling to the bathroom, a nausea began sprouting in my stomach. I washed the blood off my arm in a haze, feeling sick and empty and (relieved?) and _sick_ and alone. So, so alone. The solitude brought me back to the kitchen to clean up the blood, made my limbs heavy and my eyes droopy. Reminded me of the pain I had felt inflicted upon me, the pain I inflicted upon myself. The nauseating pleasure accompanied by both.

If I spent the day sleeping, there was no one to tell me I was weak. If I pressed down on my wounds, quietly relishing the ache, there was no one to tell me to stop. And if tears streamed down my empty face, if I felt like there was nothing left to life than this loneliness that had taken over me...there was no one to tell me that I was loved.

Pain, pleasure. Often they come hand in hand. At twelve years old, I had just become keenly aware of the fine line between the two. I think they call it masochism nowadays. Back then, I just thought it was a sin.

I guess I thought, back then, that I could control that dark side of myself that wanted to hurt. The tiny voice that told me that I deserved it, that I had earned the cuts and the bruises and the violations to my body. I was unsure of how, at that time, what exactly I had done to warrant such extreme punishment, but I never once questioned the logic that I was a freak, a fraud, an abomination. Never.

Which isn't to say that I always heard this voice. The Barnes', they could drown out the sound of that hateful mantra. So could the scratching sound of a pencil on paper. The chirping of birds on those early mornings on the fire escape where everything seemed like it could be okay. There were times I felt joy, true joy that swelled in my breast and my bones.

The darkness, however, was far greater than any light my life gave me.

I never questioned the logic that I deserved to hurt, just as I never questioned that I had to keep it to myself. Because I wanted to be a man someday, a big strong fellow who could take punches with a smile and talk with a voice people heard. I was desperate to be that kinda guy, desperate to grow up and grow out of the suffering I couldn't stop experiencing.

And to be a man, you had to be tough. You had to keep your feelings to yourself, because a real man didn't have any feelings at all. I mimicked the mindset the world taught me, tried to follow in the footsteps of some imaginary man I hoped to someday be. I stayed quiet, because this man would never think the things I did, much less talk about them.

I stayed quiet.

And maybe that was the first step towards an early grave. Maybe I was sending myself on a path of self destruction and hate. I was twelve. I didn't know. I didn't care. I didn't have the luxury of making choices for myself, doing anything that wasn't specifically for my own survival. A hard truth, a hard life, but I learned quickly how to cover up bandages and burns. After all, I had been covering up bruises for years.

**BUCKY BARNES, JANUARY 5, 1931**

Sometimes, when I was feelin' real tough, I'd walk down to the docks and watch the big guys unload the boats there.

It took courage to do this, see, because the chrome dome who oversaw the whole operation went into a rage if he saw any kids hangin' around. As the neighborhood's resident tough guy, I risked the dangers so I could watch.

It was nuts, how strong those guys were. You could see their muscles from a mile away, bulging and sweating cuz of the heat and the strain and all. I always looked at them and thought, sure would be great to have a body like that someday. I wasn't shrimpy like Steve, but I certainly wasn't too beefy at the time.

Steve. He was the best friend a guy could ask for, smart and talented with a heart of gold. I wasn't sure why people didn't see him like I did, treated him worse than trash on the street, but I was always happy to correct them where I could.

Steve was real good at drawing, some of those sketches he spent hours and hours on looked like photographs instead of pencil. He was always quick to disagree, quick to point out all the ways that it was messed up, but I never understood why. He was fantastic.

When I was twelve, I liked throwing rocks off the bridge by the tenements and watching them splash into the water. But now, at thirteen, I thought myself to be above such childish ventures and decided that throwing rocks at the black and white faces of Wanted posters was much more dignified.

Steve, though? He was only twelve, but he seemed way older than that, way older than even _me._ I liked to remind him of our age difference, make sure he knew that I was the older and therefore wiser one in our friendship, and he was always happy to agree. But honestly, I think we both knew that Steve was a smarter kid than I ever could be.

It bugged me, sometimes, the way he could sit still where I had to fidget and play. How he could talk to adults in ways that made them say, "What a fine young gentleman!" or, "Son, you tell your mother she did a fine job raising you," when those same adults told me things like, "Get this kid outta here!" or, "Go back and play with your cousins, the adults are talking."

Sometimes I felt real mean, when I would get jealous of Steve. I'd try to one up him, show everyone that I could be mature and grown up like him. I'd tell him, "You know I'm older, so I'm more grown up than you, right?" He'd always agree right away. That's what made me feel bad, because Steve was supposed to disagree! It was almost like he believed what all those jerks in school said about him.

I was quick to sock those bullies on the jaw, if Steve didn't get to them first. For someone who didn't know how to speak up for himself, that kid sure did have guts. I hated seeing him with a black eye or a split lip, but it was almost a comfort to know that my friend could at least defend himself _somehow._ Or at least, try to.

There were many important moments in my thirteenth year of life, but the one that comes to mind first is a trip to the docks. It was a Friday afternoon, so I knew Steve wouldn't want to come with. I was kind of happy about that, because if the boss man showed up and tried to chase us away, Steve's asthma could kick up and we'd be in for a world of hurt.

I got Johnny Carver to come with me, the poor kid was shaking in his shoes. "C'mon, Johnny-o, it'll be fun!" I said, bumping his shoulder as we made our way towards the docks.

"Okay, but why? Just because there's a chance we'll get in trouble? That doesn't sound very fun to me, Bucky."

I started growing impatient with his nerves, saying, "Come _on,_ Johnny. You a chicken? Gonna go run back to the others and tell 'em you couldn't stomach a trip to the docks?"

"No..."

"Well then, let's go!" I slung an arm around his shoulder and patted him on the shoulder. "Maybe people will think you're tough as me once the day's done."

We made our way to my spot, the one where you could get a good look at the dock lookers while staying fairly hidden. "Wow," Johnny said quietly, "Look how strong they are."

Strong was an understatement. These guys spent their days unloading crate after crate of goods from the boats that came in from the harbor, they looked like they were even more jacked than Buck Rogers. "I know, right? I think I'm gonna work here when I grow up."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Or be a doctor, maybe. Or a soldier. Daddy says those are good jobs to have."

Johnny and I kept watching for a while. Eventually, I turned over to see if he was bored, and saw him starin' right at me. He flushed and looked away, and that's when I realized that we were standing awful close to each other.

Not that that meant much, 'cause we were just two pals looking at the docks like real tough guys. The other kids were gonna be so impressed when we got back, gonna tell Johnny he was a hot shot like me. I wanted them to say that, Johnny was a nice kid and he deserved to have some respect, too.

I realized I was still starin' at him, and looked away. "Shit," I heard Johnny say, "I think that bald guy over there saw us."

"Bald guy? Johnny, that's the boss! Run!"

And run we did, sprinted for a full two blocks before stopping to catch our breath. We both let out relieved laughs as we looked at each other, and Johnny gave me a really nice smile. "Gee, thanks, Bucky. You were right, that was fun."

"What did I tell you!" I said back, all cocky like, and gave him a wink. Johnny turned as red as a tomato, and I smiled more wide. "Hey, kid, you're blushin' like a girl."

"Not tryin' to," he mumbled back.

"Well ya are."

"Sorry." 

The playful mood evaporated, leaving an awkward silence between us. Feeling guilty all of a sudden, I quickly backtracked, "Don't be-you're fine. It was just cute, s'all."

"...Cute?" Johnny looked at me with comically wide eyes, and I felt horror overtake me.

"Wha-no, I meant like how-that's not what I meant. You looked like a little kid, it was funny."

"Oh, right. Yeah. We should probably get back to the others, huh? Tell 'em how we almost got killed?"

"Yeah, yeah, we should."

Later that night, I spent way too much time thinking about that interaction. About how Johnny's cheeks turned red, about how close together we were standing...and about how much I _liked_ it. That was the part that bothered me.

You see, I knew that some guys were born crips, but not like in the way that their legs didn't work or their heads were all dumb. No, they were crippled in the heart-they decided to be fags. I was confused, though. Because even though I knew I had been looking at Johnny the way the other boys looked at girls, I didn't _want_ to. If I wanted to see him as just a pal, then didn't that mean I wasn't a fag? Because people chose to be fags, I knew that.

I liked God a whole lot, Daddy said he was like a friend that watched over you and helped you make the right choices. So that night, for the first time in my life, I prayed of my own accord.

_Dear God,  
Hey, didya-well, I guess you saw what happened today. I'm real sorry, God, I promise I didn't mean to do anything bad. Momma says that if I ask you to forgive me and mean it, you will. So...forgive me? I swear, I won't be like that again. I don't know why I was thinking like that today, but I won't do it anymore. I WON'T, God, swear on my life.  
Please help me not mess up like this again, and also please help me do good on my geometry test tomorrow. Please help Daddy do good at work, and Momma not look so sad all the time. Please be kind to Dolly and Becky and Calpurnia and please help Steve not get sick this winter.  
Love, Bucky._

I turned off the light after that and went to sleep, feeling much lighter.


End file.
